Page 1 of Our Sins in Silver (Coven of Sin 3)

Chapter one

Lucifer Curse It

Sterling - Pt. 1 (Circa 1050 A.D.)

I’dbeenholdingthequill for so long that my fingers stung. How much time had passed since they’d locked me inside the scriptorium? Squinting at the singular flickering flame that illuminated my work, I noted the wax pillar had shrunk to the third hour mark since I’d lit its wick. My strained mind was fraying like a rope, and I realized I’d lost track of how many clock candles I’d burnt through. Had I ceased counting for the sake of my sanity, or had I reached the stage of my punishment where time was beyond my comprehension?

A rebellious groan rumbled up from my stomach as if my internal organs were rubbing against one another to spark any sensation that wasn’t hunger. My lips cracked from thirst, and my eyelids screamed for the chance to shut, even for a moment. The words on the parchment before me blurred.

Even the simple task of dipping my quill tip in the inkpot was painful, my muscles shaking violently as if it were Christ’s cross I held and not a feather.

The prospect of copying yet another line of scripture might as well have been torture of the highest degree for how my body screamed in protest. I’d copied Psalms 40 countless times over. The stack of parchment on my desk was so thick it would make for a suitable pillow. If only I could sleep. But at this stage in my delirium, it was beyond me. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was Psalms 40, written in my hand and in my own heart’s blood.

Though my will was made strong by the Spirit of the Lord, my limbs were certainly not. My hand tremored, making my lines unintelligible. I could scarcely hold the quill anymore.

I’d been laboring at my desk for so long that the calluses on my writing hand had rubbed raw, leaving my flesh angry and abused. Bright beads of blood streaked down my quill, discoloring the black ink and making my script run muddy. I cursed low under my breath, then allowed the bloody quill to fall from my grip.

Sagging into my chair, I stared up at the ceiling beams as I rubbed my aching fingers.

It wasn’t the pain that bothered me.

Pain was a part of being alive. It was natural. What it wasn’t, though, was something to be glorified or revered as an act of piety. That opinion had landed me in this predicament in the first place. The abbot certainly hadn’t appreciated my objections following Brother Peter’s sermon.“Those who seek Christ should practice self-flagellation for the duration of the time it takes one to recite Psalms 40,”he’d said.“For only those who share in the sufferings of Christ can be saved.”

It’d surely been a miracle of God that I’d kept my mouth shut while I’d been made to listen to that dribble.

Following the sermon, the abbot announced to the senior monks that he expected the practice to be incorporated into the lives of all citizens of our abbey. Self-harm was to be observed regularly in between prayers, meals, and labor hours.

That was when I could no longer hold my tongue. Groaning, I rubbed my temple with my uninjured hand. What a fool I’d been.

Keeping my head down and maintaining my silence outside the domain of my library—and its adjoining scriptorium—was not only expected of me in my position as a monk, but it also helped maintain my cover. If they discovered the true purpose behind my fierce pursuit of the senior-scribe position, I’d have more to worry about than bloody fingers and sleep deprivation.

The other monks likely viewed my punishment as merciful. A monk in a lower position would have likely received a flogging.

I knew the abbot better than that.

He was a ruthless man who emanated a power that caused everyone to approach him with the utmost caution, scraping and bowing like lambs approaching a lion. So, it didn’t surprise me one bit that the sermon on self-flagellation struck a chord with our exalted leader. The man was a slave to discipline and order, and he seemed to take a little too much amusement in ensuring he maintained such things. His punishments were creative. I’d give him that. He knew how seriously I took my work as the senior monk in command of the abbey’s scribes, clerics, and illuminators. Even after the day had finished and the others took their meals and went to prayer, I’d stay in the scriptorium and slave late into the night, pouring over manuscripts and transcribing scriptures.

I didn’t just enjoy my work—it was my one true love and my heart’s devotion—for what was a more powerful tool than humanity’s incredible development of language and communication? With books and education, we could spread the teachings of Our Lord to future generations.

As I stared down at my shaking fingers—stained with ink and blood—a lump swelled in my throat. The abbot was taking something close to me and trying to make it ugly.

Corruption in the church wasn’t a new notion to me. It’s why I’d taken my vows in the first place. Neither was it uncommon for men like the abbot and Brother Peter to share harmful and inhumane ideals. That’s how the holy text had been poisoned over the centuries, and I aimed to expunge such cruelty from our teachings. Most men of authority within the church would see it as blasphemous to even suggest altering our scriptures. So, I had to sneak around like a criminal.

I suppose, in a sense, I was committing a crime. What I was doing was certainly blasphemous. Heresy. If I were discovered, I would likely pay for my sins with my life.

I feared no man, nor pain or death.

What I feared was the possibility of not dying a martyr.

I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was truly doing God’s work. And was it men like the abbot and Brother Peter who had strayed from the path of righteousness rather than myself? It was nearly impossible to separate God’s will from his disciples’. If I was mistaken, and my time spent in this mortal coil was only ensuring my place in purgatory, would it be worth it?

Yes. The answer would always be yes.

Regardless of God’s will, we needed a more modern, humanitarian version of our teachings. Even if He was as cruel and unforgiving as the texts taught, the children of God deserved to live their lives without the constant worry of being struck down at the slightest error. They needed hope, not more discipline and fear.

Steeling my resolve with a deep breath, I reached for my blood-crusted quill but paused when footsteps in the hall sounded. They halted, and the silence was followed by the jingle of keys and a heavy clink as the lock’s tumbler turned over. The next moment, the door creaked open, and a familiar face appeared.

Relief washed through me at the sight of my apprentice. “Brother Elijah.”

---